


The Cat Has Nine Tails

by grabmotte



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Flogging, Friendship, Gen, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Meme, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 05:58:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2954777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grabmotte/pseuds/grabmotte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can Porthos hurt one friend to save another? And how will the musketeers deal with the aftermath?</p><p>Originally written as a fill for a prompt on the kink-meme, now betaed and edited for your reading pleasure.</p><p>The original prompt asked for the cardinal taking revenge on Aramis for the whole affair with Adele by forcing Porthos to whip Aramis while holding Athos at gun point: <i>"Cue angst, guilt and h/c. I can see Athos in my head ordering the henchman to shoot and begging Porthos to stop, and poor Porthos being completely destroyed by the fact that he has to hurt one friend to save another."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"First of all, I need you to strip."

"Excuse me?"

The moment he had stepped out of his apartment Aramis had stepped into a nightmare. He had barely left the house when he had been picked up by half a dozen Red Guards.

He had initially only spotted two of them, but still reached for his sword just as a precaution. He had barely put his hand on the hilt when he had been accosted from behind. The guards had not even attempted a formal arrest until he had been lying in the dirt, mud smeared all over his face, with two of the bastards sitting on his back to hold him down. 

Afterwards, disarmed and groggy, he been dragged onto the next street wide enough to accommodate a coach, been bundled into said coach, and driven to who knew where with his hands tied and a sack over his head like a condemned man bound for the gallows.

He knew not how much time he had spent in that coach, but he had ended up in this forlorn courtyard made up of stark white walls surrounding a dark, square dirt floor, which he had never seen before, and in which all the windows and doors were shuttered. 

In this court he had found a score of Red Guards waiting. The fact that every single one of them used a cloth to cover the lower halves of their faces had not served to reassure him.

And they had Athos with them. 

"I see they have invited you too."

His friend's tone appeared light, conversational, as he stood rigid, held in the grasp of two guards. At least he appeared unhurt, yet. A third guard right next to them was brandishing a pistol. 

The unreality of the scene made Aramis answer Athos with a grin.

And of course there also was Cardinal Richelieu himself who was presently telling him to strip. 

"I'm a busy man. We don't have all day. Please, take off your doublet and your shirt."

"And if I refuse?" _There was no law against asking, right?_

Richelieu indicated Athos with a meaningful nod of his head. The guard with the pistol pressed its muzzle to the musketeer's jaw. 

"Fine," Aramis said. "I hope you enjoy the show."

He held up his bound wrists:

"Only I can't undress with my hands tied, can I?"

On a nod from the cardinal the man that had led Aramis into the courtyard cut him loose with a dagger and the guard next to Athos cocked his gun.

The warning was clear: _Don't try anything._

Whatever Richelieu had in store for them, Aramis could tell he was not going to like it. They had never been friendly with the cardinal, but this went beyond anything Aramis could have ever imagined the man doing. 

He took off his belt and sash before moving to undo the loops of his doublet. His movements were just that fraction slower and more deliberate than they needed to be in order to give his eyes the opportunity to scan for escape routes. There was only one door that did not appear to be shuttered, which must have been the one he had entered through. It was behind him. 

The small courtyard itself was almost empty apart from this odd congregation of people the cardinal had arranged. And except for a number of rotten barrels and a metal bucket. There was also a metal grating bolted to the far wall – probably at one time intended to support climbing plants – that one could use to scale the wall … if one were suicidal, seeing how all the cardinal's guards possessed firearms.

But before attempted anything, he needed to get Athos away from that pistol. Or better: to get the pistol to Athos. If they could somehow take the cardinal hostage themselves … well that might lead to a weird trial – or to them being summarily executed. 

It was unusual for the Richelieu to involve himself so directly. Whatever was going to happen, Aramis suspected the cardinal doubted they would report it. Well, it was all fairly incredible so far: the cardinal openly threatening Athos to force Aramis to … do what?

As Aramis let his coat drop and moved on to loosen his shirt he addressed the cardinal again.

"While I do this … are you going to tell me what this is about?"

Richelieu seemed only all too happy to oblige. In fact, his eyes lit up at the opportunity. Aramis suppressed a shudder that did not stem from his state of undress.

"We used to have a mutual friend", the cardinal began, conversationally. "Do you remember a young woman called Adele?"

Aramis did not like how Richelieu pronounced _used to_.

"Yes. I believe she had me get rid of rats once or twice in her apartment."

The cardinal sent him a cold look, nodded to the guard standing at his side, and the next thing Aramis felt was a pistol butt slamming into the side of his head. He dropped onto his knees.

Athos started, but the gun pressed to his face held him back.

After a moment Aramis stopped seeing stars and as the Red Guards dragged him back to his feet Richelieu continued. For some reason the man was suddenly right in front of him. Aramis winced at the steeliness of his voice.

"I know about your little affair. And I know you knew what she had been to me when you started it."

 _Had been_?!

Aramis tried to find words through the headache that had drilled itself into his head. "What does it matter now? She chose you!" His voice sounded slightly more hurt than he had hoped it would. "She left Paris!" 

Aramis liked Richelieu's smirk even less.

"You are almost right. It won't matter soon enough." The cardinal gestured to the guards that held Aramis upright, fabric ripped and in the fraction of a second they had relieved him of his shirt. 

"Hey!"

"I am giving you the opportunity to make it up to me and pay for your sins."

Richelieu walked over to the metal grating and Aramis felt his guts liquefy and his limbs turn to lead. 

When Richelieu gave the order to tie Aramis to the grating his guards had to drag him all the way over the dry earth of the unpaved courtyard. Despite the cardinal teasing him to better play along for Athos' sake his legs simply would not move. 

The icy bite of the metal into his chest as they tied him to the grating, arms stretched out to either side, feet wide apart, matched his cold despair.

When the guards stepped back, for a moment his bound wrists were all that held him upright. 

Aramis forced himself to control his breathing and gain command over his legs again. He had to get a hold of himself. For Athos. For Adele. _God_ , he'd never fool around again! Not with any woman he had not triple[-]checked had never ever even heard of the cardinal. _If they made it out of here_. 

He took a deep breath and tried to turn his head away from the wall far enough to catch sight of Richelieu.

"Why make Athos part of this? You have me now. Let him go."

The cardinal's expression turned unexpectedly soft. He was indeed enjoying the show.

"Be assured, I am not a man given to excess. Your friends play an essential part in your punishment."

As the cardinal finished Aramis could just spot at the periphery of his vision a number of Red Guards entering the courtyard bringing in another man.

_Not him too!_

There was no mistaking Porthos. Even with a sack over his head. Even if had he not been shouting abuse at the men who led him forward. His hands were bound in front of him but it still took four guards just to hold him. 

The realisation thawed the dread that had frozen Aramis enough to lift the corners of his mouth into a grimace that almost resembled a smile. He hoped Porthos had made them pay dearly when they had taken him. His satisfaction at the thought disappeared when they removed the hood.

Dark bruises marked the musketeer's left temple. The skin above his cheekbone had split and was bleeding, the flesh around it swelling and blooming in an angry purple colour.

Richelieu had placed him so that the first thing Porthos saw was Athos with his hands tied and a gun to his head. The sight had most likely been intended to ensure his good behaviour, but his mind completely abandoned the man when he spotted Aramis lashed to the metal grating, naked from the waist up, facing the wall. 

It took all the Red Guards not engaged in holding Athos to force Porthos to remain where he was, as he threw himself against the grip of his captors with a howl. 

Part of Aramis wanted to call out to him. Part of him wanted to resort again to begging. But no, he still had a shred of his dignity left. All he would achieve would be to betray his fear. He could not risk that, or Porthos might truly attempt something stupid.

He wondered whether his friend had understood something Aramis had not. Something regarding what they were going to do to him. 

He strained to see what was going on behind him, but wherever they had dragged Porthos to, it was outside of his field of vision. He heard him though, loud and clear.

"You are going to pay for this!" 

Athos hissed at him to shut up. 

But it did not sound like anyone attempted to chastise Porthos for his outburst. 

When the cardinal spoke again his voice did not betray any hint of being intimidated by Porthos' threats.

"Seeing how we are all here now we can finally begin. The sooner we start the sooner you gentlemen might even walk home." He paused, and Aramis heard the tone of his voice lighten as if something amusing had occurred to him. "Well, not all of you, of course. Certainly not walk."

Aramis turned his head to face the wall. No need for his friends to see his expression now.

He needed to steel himself for what was coming.

Richelieu moved back into his field of vision.

A guard handed a bag to him and Aramis heard Porthos growl.

Again, Richelieu appeared unimpressed. He focused on whatever was in the bag instead.

"Just get it over with!" Aramis hissed between closed teeth. He couldn't take this cheap kind of showmanship anymore.

"Eager, are we?" Richelieu smiled. A sight Aramis hoped never to see again.

"Sadly our own armed forces shy from corporal punishment far more than, say, our friends across the channel. And I'm certain a lot of the unpleasant mistakes that brought you gentlemen to my attention could have been avoided with adequate chastisement. But even though you may never have experienced the method before, you will recognise the instrument."

He reached for the contents of the bag.

 _Oh no_.

It was a whip. 

Of course it was a whip. 

Had anyone still been hoping this would all turn out to be a joke and the cardinal would offer them wine and cake instead?

The weapon had lain snugly curled up in the bag. Richelieu shook it out in one splendid movement so that its tails swung free. They were least two feet long. Their tips stroked the ground like an obscene promise. 

"You can't be serious."

That was Athos. What an uncharacteristically dumb statement. It upset Aramis more than any of the anguished noises Porthos made. Not even the cardinal would go through this much trouble simply to scare them without intending to follow through on his threats. 

He heard some of the guards actually break into laughter at Athos' shock: a shrill laughter that the cardinal quenched with a look. 

That should have sealed it for any doubting onlookers. If even the guards were nervous this _had_ to be serious.

With horror Aramis watched as the cardinal walked over to him. He couldn't help but squirm in his bonds. Somewhere behind him he heard people move on the dusty floor and Porthos calling his name in distress. Aramis forced himself to keep still.

It appeared more and more unlikely that he would get out of this unscathed. The least he could was not to encourage his friends to do something that might get them killed.

 _Please, Lord, make him spare Athos and Porthos_. Please!

Perhaps the cardinal had only brought them here to witness his humiliation, to increase his shame?

Oh, who was he fooling? The cardinal did not seem like a man who trusted in witnesses of any kind other than the ones he bought himself.

When Richelieu stepped up to him he held the whip's handle so close to Aramis' face that it made his nose itch. 

Driven by what could only be darkest masochism Aramis forced himself to look. The handle, as thick as any broom's, was made from rope of a coarse texture. Its fabric was of an off-white colour that offended the eyes by its cheerfulness. From this handle sprang three slimmer lines of the same coarse material: each of them was spliced into three pencil thin tails. 

These nine tails in turn sported knots every few inches that reminded Aramis of nothing so much as thorns on a vine. 

"Are you going to whip me yourself then for seducing your mistress?"

"No." 

Aramis took a shaky breath. His brain had decided to turn to bravado to stop him from screaming.

"Are you going to whip me for something else?"

Richelieu put on a smile that looked frighteningly genuine.

"No", he said. "I am not going to hurt you at all. Monsieur Porthos is."

_What._

The words had been spoken softly but they somehow managed to make his ears ring.

"No, you can't do this!" _Not to Porthos_. Aramis did not care if the cardinal would have his guards rip him to pieces instead. As long as they did not force Porthos to do it. They simply could not force him. They could not do this to Porthos. Not Porthos. 

Through his sudden, shock-induced stupor Aramis could hear Porthos go berserk.

"No. I refuse!" 

Yes. Don't let them do this. Don't.

"Do your own damned dirty work. Shoot me if you want. I'm not doing it."

"No!" Don't shoot him!

"Fine. We will shoot Athos."

"Do it!" Was that really his own voice that rang through the courtyard? It sounded so strange. So shrill. "Do it, Porthos!"

"Don't Porthos. You are going to kill him!" Since when did Athos get a say in this? 

"Porthos," Aramis forced himself to sound as calm as possible. "Listen to me. Just do it."

But Athos was not done yet. "He doesn't know what he's saying. Don't let them make you part of their game. Aramis is your friend. You can't do this." And then, bluntly: "A musketeer wouldn't do this."

Porthos did not even respond. At a Royal hunt Aramis hat once seen a stag hound get too close to the game. As it had been pierced by the antlers it had keened. Porthos made that exact same noise. 

Aramis would have to help him make a choice. Before Athos did.

"It's alright, Porthos. Just do what the cardinal says. Please. Trust me. I'll be fine." 

"Porthos!" Whatever Athos had been going to respond was cut off. Presumably the cardinal had motioned the guards holding him to keep him quiet.

Aramis had no idea what Richelieu had been doing while they had argued, but clearly he must have been enjoying himself. He did not sound at all agitated when he spoke again:

"I very much doubt that. But I'm glad that one of you has found his senses. So, Porthos. You have the choice: Either you take the whip and do exactly as I say, or we shoot Athos. What shall it be?"

Porthos voiced something between a growl and a sob, but then he gave in.

"I'll do it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters will be posted daily.
> 
> I fear Richelieu's a right bastard here. But since the fact that the prompt appeared as interested if not more in the aftermath as in the actual act of torture attracted me so much, and since I simply couldn't resist the challenge to try and write a flogging, I somehow manage not to feel too guilty about it.
> 
> As you might be able to tell this fill is heavily inspired by my love for historical maritime fiction and non-fiction and the story pays hommage to that fact in every way possible. From the staging of the torture to the cat (mainly because this is the field in which I am most comfortable researching subject matter of this nature). Bits and pieces of the description of the actual flogging are based on, or paraphrase eye-witness accounts from the 18th century. These lines refer to individual experiences that might or might not have been exaggerated or dramatised, but I did not feel comfortable making the _whole_ thing up. I hope readers won't feel I took the subject matter lightly. It would be unwise to generalise about the quality and quantity of pain suffered during such a flogging. It is also impossible to generalise about exactly what amount of lashes proves fatal. Some people are able to survive floggings as severe as the ones that killed other people. The same goes for the severity of injuries sustained during a flogging and whether or not they turned out to be survivable. 
> 
> As the OP specifically asked for none of the characters to die I also took some liberties with the aftercare Aramis receives, but hopefully not so much as to entirely ruin the fiction.


	2. Chapter 2

As Porthos agreed to play the part of executioner Aramis felt sick that something that had horrified him moments ago should now seem a mercy to him. Still he sighed in relief.

He felt calm as he heard Richelieu address his guards. "Move our other guest to the other wall, please, before you untie his hands."

The cardinal was not as dumb as to hand Porthos a weapon without making sure there was no way he could reach the other hostage before they could shoot either of them. 

He turned back to Aramis.

"Any last words before we begin?"

"Why? Why do this? You have won. Why the need to take revenge? You have the woman."

Even as the words emerged between his lips Aramis realised how vastly he had misjudged his opponent.

Would Richelieu truly be doing this over a lover who had had a fling with a musketeer, but ultimately chosen the cardinal? No. Oh, no. This had to be something else. The cardinal's grudge reached far deeper. Even, if at the bottom sat, too, one gnarled, old, faded root from which had budded what Aramis had tried and tried to never let become real in his mind: _Why had Adele really disappeared?_

Richelieu stepped up close to him and Aramis felt himself tremble. One hand snaked into Aramis' hair to carefully turn his head, so they would be able to look each other in the eye. Under other circumstances this kind of touch might have been comforting, steadying. As it were it made Aramis nauseous. 

"I am going to tell you something" the cardinal said softly, "that will help you accept your punishment." The hand grabbed his hair forcefully and yanked his head back. "When I had her shot she died cursing your name!"

With that he let go and strode away.

"You're a monster!" Aramis called after him, but his voice sounded weak to his own ears.

"Think of that the next time you intend to take something that isn't yours."

Aramis let his forehead rest on the cool metal in front of him. Adele was dead because of him. Because he could not keep his hands to himself. And because he had enjoyed putting the horns on the cardinal, so sure he would never be found out. Like the hero in a comedy. 

What an ass he was.

He heard Porthos' heavy footsteps approach on the dry earth. "Aramis…"

For once his friend was at a loss for words. 

"It's alright, Porthos. I forgive you."

Aramis tried to look behind him. He needed to make Porthos understand that it was all right; needed to look him in the eye. Dejectedly he noticed that the other man was in his shirtsleeves.

Then one of the guards appeared at his side holding out a strip of leather.

"What is that?"

"A bit", explained the cardinal in the most condescending tone, as if Aramis had walked into a stable and asked what a horse was. He sounded like he had removed himself from the scene quite a distance. Out of range of the whip. "For you to bite on", he continued. "So you don't choke on your blood when you bite your tongue off."

That same fool hero in him that had gotten them into this mess considered refusing the offer for a second.

"Take it!" That was Porthos. "Aramis, please."

Aramis allowed the guard to tie the bit in place. He tried not to touch it with his tongue if he could at all avoid it.

Then Richelieu gave his final orders.

"Don't hold back. Don't stop before I order you to."

Aramis braced himself.

"Remove the gag. Athos may count the lashes."

_My dear Athos._

"Begin!"

Aramis heard the dull swish of the whip's tails as Porthos drew his arm back. In the next moment his back stung and he felt himself being propelled forward onto the grating. 

"One."

_That was not so bad._

He felt a thud. Just a thud.

But he had hardly taken another breath when the whip swung back again, then snapped forward.

He thought his shoulders would explode. A second later his skin was on fire, but he refused to cry out. 

"Stop!"

Richelieu had ordered Porthos to stop! Aramis could hardly believe it. Thankful he rested his cheek on the grating, concentrating on the cool sensation to forget about the heat on his back. 

"Remember what I said about you not holding back."

"I'm not. I was testing the range."

"You either put some of your famed strength in there, or my guards are taking over."

Aramis did not like the sound of that. Porthos responded with silence. 

"Porthos, you have the choice. You can wield the whip yourself and if you're convincing I might allow you to stop before Aramis dies. Or you can watch my guards flog him to death. After I've had Athos shot."

Porthos took Richelieu by his word.

The next time the whip connected with his back Aramis felt like his lungs would burst. 

Still, he held himself together. Somehow he had to. All that escaped him was a grunt. He could take it. Make it easy on Porthos. 

"Three."

He heard the Cardinal snort. He did not understand what he snapped at Athos until his friend's voice once again echoed trough the courtyard in a monotone:

"One." 

Aramis laughed around the bit. 

The whip returned and sank its knotted fangs into his flesh. If he had not been tied to the grating he guessed he would have been knocked down.

"Two."

The time that passed between each stroke was just enough for sensations other than that of the impact to return to him, before the whip struck again. 

"Three."

He could feel his skin weep, as the cool air lapped at his bare flesh.

"Four."

He wondered if he would actually feel the blood run down his back eventually. Or if that would be too light a sensation compared to the pain in his back that burned away anything else.

"Five."

Aramis tried to count how long it took for Porthos to strike again. But Athos calling out a random number in between was distracting. 

"Six."

Aramis felt tears forming in the corner of his eyes. The pain stung like a thousand needle points. 

"Seven."

He was sure it had been twenty-two seconds this time.

"Eight."

Richelieu was too far away for him to tell clearly. And there was the sweat threatening to run into his eyes. But it looked like the cardinal was biting the nail of his thumb in excitement.

"Nine."

Another lash ripped through him and Aramis was glad for the bit. He wondered whether he somehow could manage to injure his teeth enough to distract himself from the lake of brimstone that was eating the skin off his back.

He moaned.

"Ten."

Aramis was not sure, but he thought he spotted a look of disgust in the eyes of the guard nearest to him. He wondered if it was just the sight of him, or the act itself that disturbed the man. 

Had he even started bleeding yet?

"Eleven."

Twenty-eight seconds. Porthos was getting slower.

"Twelve."

How long before the guards realise that no sane man orders a flogging and enjoys it? 

"Thirteen."

There was a weird tingling on his back when a soft breeze brushed over the court. He knew his back was wet but he could not connect the exact sensation to anything he had felt before.

It was so strange.

And dulled.

"Fourteen." 

He was dimly aware that the metal grating had begun to chafe the skin off his cheekbone as he moved against it with every lash in a welcome distraction.

At "fifteen" he heard the cardinal step in again. Were they done already? 

Aramis smirked. He had not felt a thing!

"Change the hand." 

_Oh._

Porthos responded something too quiet to hear. 

"Change the hand, you're getting tired."

This time Aramis might have let out a sob. 

At "twenty" he was sure he had let out a sob.

"Twenty-one."

The world began to grey around the edges of his vision.

"Twenty-two."

The fire was back in his lungs.

There was not enough room in there for it. 

"Twenty-three."

Why was the fire in his lungs and not on his back? There... there was something he was supposed to do.

Right. Keep breathing.

"Twenty-four."

It was no use. The fire was pressing against his ribcage. Aramis hated how the bit kept him from closing his teeth. He was afraid his lungs must escape through his mouth.

"Twenty-five."

Porthos changed hands again. 

Aramis bit down so hard that surely the offending article must rip.

"Twenty-eight."

Where had his consciousness gone for the numbers in between? 

"Twenty-nine."

Something was wrong. Something must be wrong. With every lash of the whip he felt as if something inside of him ruptured. It was not his back that was lacerated. It could not be his back. It were his intestines that were flogged raw, bleeding. 

"Thirty."

Porthos was doing it wrong! Wrong! Could he not even aim properly? How could he mistake his insides for his outside?

"Thirty-one."

Another lash pressed him against the metal grating. 

"Thirty-two."

He wondered what he must look like. With his skin and flesh stripped off and the bones at his back ground away so that his guts lay bare for the whip to feast on. 

"Thirty-five."

And suddenly he was wet all over. His hair was dripping. Impossible! Too much of it to be sweat. He was soaked from head to foot. Definitely not blood either. No stains. Just water.

And it rolled over the wound that used to be his back, into what must be his open ribcage, and Aramis screamed. But the sensation remained.

As he heard his own shouts of torment die away, and turn into small moans, and as the stinging pain faded to a mere burning sensation that drew tears from his eyes, some morbid part of him noted that Athos had skipped a couple of numbers again there. 

If Porthos was too stupid to hit what he was supposed to, Athos was too dumb to count. That must be it. 

And no wonder the man miscounted, he was busy yelling!

Aramis screwed his eyes shut to prevent himself from even trying to look. He did not need to see him. Hearing him was hell enough. 

He understood every word. And he hated himself for not finding the strength to tell Athos to shut up and just let the flogging continue. Even when he heard what his friend offered instead.

Porthos' next strike was late by about twenty seconds.

As Athos still would not stop shouting, someone else had taken over the count.

"Thirty-six."

A shot rang through the court.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line about how no sane person enjoys a flogging quotes one of Dudley Pope's _Lord Ramage_ novels. Thought I should mention that.


	3. Chapter 3

When Athos came to, the world had turned to shades of white. 

It took a while for him to realise that he was lying on his back and staring at a thick blanket of clouds moving over the courtyard. 

The courtyard…

The courtyard in which… 

He rolled over in the dirt and pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, which was odd to do with his hands bound in front of him. His head hurt, and his mouth tasted funny but did not feel dry. He assumed he had been out only for minutes rather than hours. There was no one stopping him from getting back up, and no one helping him. As he sat up and looked about himself he could confirm that Richelieu and his guards had gone. 

Richelieu and his guards who had made him count off every lash of that disgusting whip.

The bastard who had made him watch Porthos strip their friend's back of skin until it had turned into a gory ruin, covered with blood and bruises so dark the flesh looked like scorched meat. 

And Porthos had done it all so clinically. After the first few lashes he had gotten into an alarming rut. He had not tried fooling the cardinal anymore. After each stroke he had raised the whip again without objection, swung it back to the full extent of his arm, and struck out again. Athos' ears still rang with the sounds: the swishing, the thud. All the way through Porthos had not uttered a sound. Only his breathing had become slightly heavier with exertion as the minutes had passed.

Athos blinked. Just blinked, and the sight was before him again: Porthos running his fingers through the tails; their tips heavy and discoloured from blood. Every other stroke he had combed them like this, to remove clots of skin and gore. His care had not stopped the ends of the white rope from turning an obscene, dirty pink.

And they had made Athos count without any indication that he would ever be allowed to stop. Stop before either there was nothing left of Aramis to flog or until the amount of numbers in the universe against all odds proved finite.

Then Aramis had fallen silent. Passed out. And Richelieu had pretended to neither take note of it nor care. And who knew how often this had happened before Athos had noticed it. And he simply had not been able to take it any longer. He had cursed Richelieu, his voice cracking as he forced it out of the monotone in which he had been counting. He had drawn attention to what Richelieu had done, what he had achieved. And then he had begged him to stop. 

The cardinal's only reaction had been to order one of the guards to douse Aramis with cold water from the bucket to revive him. As according to him it would not have done for Aramis to miss his own punishment.

Athos had lost it at that point. He had completely lost his head and idiotically started with insults, turned to threats, turned finally to begging again. As Richelieu had proved stone cold he had turned to Porthos. He had told him to stop. That he did not care if it meant they would shoot him. He had even gone so far as to threaten the poor man. Told him that if he swung that whip again he would ruin him. Hurt him. Leave him. Do anything to him but kill him so that he could reflect on what he had done for the rest of his life.

Porthos had not even looked at him.

He had begged Richelieu to shoot him instead and be satisfied with the damage he had done. 

Richelieu had ignored him. 

Athos had known they would have eventually tried to shut him up again so they could continue their game. There had been nothing else to do for him in order to end it, but to jump the man that held the gun on him. 

He had used all the tricks he knew to break free, used all the methods he knew to inflict pain on the ones who held them. Smashing his head back into a face. Kicking out kneecaps. Crunching toes. He had broken free, barely, but barely enough to grab that gun.

The pistol had gone off but the ball had not hit him.

He had been knocked out instead.

And while he had been out they had gone.

Did that mean their blood thirst had been quelled? 

Did that mean …?

Athos' eyes then found the only other two people left in the court with him. 

Porthos sat kneeling on the ground, Aramis lying outstretched on his stomach before him.

Athos could not help but let a moan escape his lips as he beheld that sorrowful image. He certainly did not blame Porthos for letting him lie unconscious while looking after Aramis first.

Porthos' face had frozen into a mien of stone, his eyes wide and white, and his trembling hands were hovering over Aramis unsure even where to touch him. Unsure how to help him. 

Athos forced himself onto his feet and dropped back down next to them.

Porthos did not even turn his head to look at him but Athos was sitting close enough to spot the tracks of dried tears on his bruised face.

The prone figure before them moaned softly. 

Athos forced himself to look past the flayed back. It looked so uniformly bloody and black that you could not even tell where the whip had wrought its lacerations. He choked back a sob. He could not allow himself to become too emotional. A quick look confirmed that at least the bit had been removed, allowing their injured friend to breathe easier.

"Aramis?"

Aramis sighed in response, but kept his eyes closed. 

"You're not dead then", he breathed softly. At least he was conscious.

"No", Athos said, relieved, "and you're not either. We're taking you home now."

They really needed to get out of here.

"Porthos." 

Porthos did not respond at all, so Athos repeated himself.

"Porthos!"

He used the same tone of voice he had employed in countless battle situations. It was a voice to cut through the clash of steel and to be heard over the roar of cannon. 

And wherever Porthos' mind had taken him to, he heard him and snapped out of it. 

"Athos…"

Their eyes met. And Athos almost allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief. Porthos was not lost to him. He was responsive and strong and they would get out of this. 

"Are you hurt?"

Porthos simply shook his head.

"I need you to untie my hands. Aramis is alive and he needs both our help."

Porthos set to work immediately, if a bit more stiffly and mechanically than Athos would have hoped. As he undid the knots Athos noticed that his hands were injured, and not from handling the whip. His palms were slightly chafed from the rope handle, yes, but even his nails were bloody.

"Did you take him down from there yourself?"

Porthos nodded, but did not look up from his work, did not look him in the eye.

Athos imagined Porthos frantically clawing at Aramis' bonds and had to fight a wave of sickness. It was a feat of pure strength to force that image away from the forefront of his mind. He could not use that at all now.

The bloody Red Guards had not even bothered to cut Aramis loose before they had left. They had just let him hang there like a freshly slaughtered animal. 

Even that thought had to go for now. There would be time for anger, for revenge, later.

Right now they had to take care of Aramis. 

There was little they could do for him here. If they bandaged him up now without the means to clean the wounds first infection would certainly kill him. The best thing they could do for now was let him bleed. 

Athos still had his flask with him. The Red Guards had not taken it from him. But its contents would never suffice to prepare the wound dressings they needed. Aramis would be better served if Athos simply offered him a drink to dull the pain. 

They needed to get him to safety as quickly as possible, clean him up and dress his wounds. And who knew, some of the cuts might even need stitching. They also needed to keep him warm. His hair and remaining clothes were still wet from that vile drenching. 

As soon as his hands were free he told Porthos to lift Aramis up a bit. Aramis, of course, winced and whimpered at every touch and movement. Athos picked up Porthos' dropped coat and arranged the bulky thing loosely around Aramis to cover him up against the chill as best as he could without the fabric irritating his raw back unnecessarily. 

Porthos watched him sceptically but still would not utter a word. As long as Porthos did what Athos needed him to that was fine with him. Their own states of mind, too, were something that would have to remain neglected until later. 

Athos did indeed offer Aramis a swig, and Porthos. Then he took one himself, after helping Porthos arrange Aramis across the taller musketeer's shoulders so that he could carry him.

Now to return to their lodgings and proper supplies... At least Athos was pretty sure they would be able to leave the courtyard unhindered. If the cardinal still had plans for them certainly they would not simply all have left. 

So, what they had to do was get out of the courtyard and onto a road. Then head for the nearest landmark they recognised and commandeer the first coach they encountered – Musketeer business. Athos still wore his pauldron. If anyone actually complained to Treville he would deal with it. Later. 

Further questions like how to explain to Treville or to anyone what had happened here had to take a backseat to saving Aramis.

* * *

They eventually found themselves a coach, Porthos joining the driver on the front seat. There was no one like Porthos to get people to do what they needed them to so quickly and with so little protest. But while the coach did aid them in getting back into the city more quickly that was all it did. It certainly did not add to their comfort. 

After Porthos had untied him and he had been able to lie down and just be still for a moment Aramis might have believed that one day he would remember what breathing free of pain felt like. His back had stung and he had imagined he had been able to feel every inch of the bruising, but he had thought he could take it, that this was extent of his pain now that the actual flogging was over. The agony the trip in the coach put him in had proved him wrong.

He had no idea why Athos and Porthos believed it would be preferable for him to stay conscious for this, if not simply to make them feel better. Aramis was done with making people feel better; he simply wanted the pain to end. He wanted his punishment to end. There was no way for him to lie down in this tiny coach, not even on the floor. Instead he lay awkwardly curled up on his side on the seat with his head in Athos' lap. Having to bend, even slightly, pulled at the skin of his back and set his flesh alight. Every single laceration in his back stretched and stung along with it. 

Every shock and jolt of the coach sent a stab of pain right through him. He tried not to, he did not like having no control over it, but he could not keep himself from moaning. He wished Athos had elected to sit with Porthos instead so he would not be witness to Aramis mewling like a dumb animal. He swallowed and found himself choked up at the thought. He was a musketeer, not a wounded dog! He clenched his teeth to force back a grunt of pain but a strangled sob escaped him instead. 

Athos' feeble attempts at comfort by stroking his hair and keeping the sweat out of his eyes did nothing to distract Aramis from the pain. He was beginning to think he would prefer not to be touched at all, but he could not get the words out. All that escaped him was another groan. 

At every jostling movement of their transport he felt tears sting in his eyes. He bit his lips to keep from crying out until Athos told him to please just yell and curse all he wanted instead, but Aramis feared what else he might not be able to stop himself from doing if he gave into any more of his inhuman urges.

And then, finally, the coach had reached its destination. Aramis allowed himself to feel relieved as the coach drew up in front of his lodgings and to forget what had to follow next. At least he would be able to lie down again for this part.

* * *

As Porthos went to help Aramis to his rooms, Athos ordered the landlady's kitchen maid to bring them hot water and a clean towel. It had only taken one look at his face for her to relinquish what she had intended to prepare dinner with. 

He left her to fetch it and followed Porthos and Aramis upstairs. 

Fortunately Aramis had managed to get himself a set of wonderfully light, well-aired rooms to lodge in. The main window here even opened onto a little vegetable garden and not the stables or pigsty that other lodgers had to content with. No doubt his natural charm had played a big role in securing the best rooms in the house with his peculiar landlady. The most vivid image Athos had of her was the one time she had threatened to throw her sixteen pound cat at him, after he and Porthos had ended up in Aramis' rooms after a particularly rowdy birthday party. 

He briefly wondered whether they would ever be doing something like that again before he could chase away the thought. He needed to focus. 

When he entered the bedroom he announced that water was coming and noticed that Aramis, who to everyone's relief had remained conscious throughout, was lying on the bed, his back uncovered. He lay on his stomach, facing away from the door. He was resting his head with one cheek on a flat pillow, voicing soft moans of discomfort. Porthos was presently sitting at his head, doing nothing except looking lost again – rather than hunting for bandages or simply asking Aramis where he kept them if he did not know. 

Why did Athos have to think of all of this by himself? 

A superficial scan of Aramis' back told Athos that they should not waste anymore time, or their task would only become harder. Some of the shallower cuts had already begun to scab over and the rest of it looked as bad as it had in the courtyard. If anything the bruising had gotten worse. Cleaning the wounds would take a while. And it would hurt a lot. 

With some directions from Aramis he found what he was after, including a salve that might do some good eventually. He arranged the items on the low wooden chest that stood next to the bed and that, since Aramis did not own enough chairs, had often served him or Porthos as a seat when they had been visiting. 

And it would again, Athos told himself. The nightmare was over. All they had to do was patch up Aramis and things would right themselves again.

He heard footsteps on the stairs and moved to hold the door open for the maid. 

Porthos still had not made any attempts to move. It was not fair. How could he leave Athos to deal with this alone? 

"Porthos, we should get started. I can't do this without your help. It's going to hurt and I need you to hold Aramis down for me."

Finally! Porthos rose slowly. He just stood for a moment or two, looking at the floor, making a fist. And then came at Athos with thundering, brisk strides.

At the sight the girl put down the water and fled. 

For a moment Athos believed Porthos was going to punch him. But his fist struck the wall next to his head. 

Athos had not flinched and wondered why. 

"Do I have to bandage your hand as well now?"

This time Athos knew full well that he had said something wrong and stepped to the side before he even saw Porthos move. The other man's lunge missed him and Porthos stumbled through the open door, by some miracle not knocking over their pot of boiled water.

Athos considered whether he should close the door and barricade it with a chair until Porthos had cooled off. Perhaps he could get some work done then. He looked round for the single chair Aramis kept in here and suddenly noticed that its owner was staring at him over his shoulder, his face pale as a sheet. Athos knew practically every movement put his friend in agony. Yet he had lifted his head to stare at him, with an expression like he was attending a funeral. 

With a start Athos realised that Porthos had not gotten out a single sentence since he had snapped him out of his stupor in the courtyard. He had been exceptionally quiet all the way back to Aramis' lodgings. And here was Athos not only taking out his frustration on him but also ordering him to hurt their friend again. 

Even though it was necessary to help Aramis.

Porthos must have realised that as well, and he clearly had not intended to hurt Athos, yet he had felt the need to get up and take at swing at him, at someone, anyone – well, any _thing_.

"I'm sorry", he said, not quite sure who he was addressing. "I'll fix this."

He followed Porthos outside and closed the door.

All of this had not taken a minute. When Athos stepped onto the landing Porthos was still there, leaning against the wall. At least he appeared calmer now, like he had taken a couple of deep breaths. In the dim light of the windowless flight his eyes gleamed wet.

"You can punch me now if you want."

He was not going to mention how Aramis had looked. The last thing Porthos needed was more guilt. 

Initially Porthos simply shook his head again. But just as Athos feared he would only be treated to more silence Porthos spoke. "I shouldn't have let them walk away. I should've … ", his voice sounded heavy. "The bastards! Athos, I am going to kill them."

Athos looked down for a moment, and when his eyes snapped up again Porthos had straightened and made as if to leave, like he truly meant to waltz into the headquarters of Richelieu's guard and start twisting thumbs.

"You're not serious!"

Athos wondered if they were going to have their fight after all.

"I can't just stay here and sit around. I can't!"

"Don't!" Athos threw himself against his friend. He knew that if Porthos set his mind to it he would not physically be able to stop him from leaving. 

But he would have to hurt Athos first. 

"Don't," he repeated, pressing his hands against Porthos' shoulders. "Not now. Stay." He tried to stay calm, even while he pushed Porthos back against the wall. "We will have our revenge. But not now. He needs you."

Porthos yielded as Athos had known he would the moment he had allowed himself to be pushed back. He threw out his arms with a frustrated yell and crushed Athos against him. As they rested against each other Athos could feel his friend's sense of helplessness wash over him like a tide, here to stay until nothing but a cosmic force called it back. It was a hug out of uncertainty, out of grief. It was a hug embodying the physical comfort they could not give to Aramis.

Athos leaned into that embrace, resting his head against Porthos' shoulder, moving his own arms around the other man and just held him. Held on to him. 

He felt the rate of Porthos' breathing change, coming down from his outburst, and distinctly heard the big man swallow a sob. 

Athos felt so exhausted, but he had to listen to his own advice: taking care of Aramis was the only thing that mattered.

He cleared his throat. "We need to get back in there."

Porthos tightened his hold just for a moment as if in acknowledgement, or resignation, then he let go.

They faced each other. 

"I can restrain him if you'd prefer not to—" 

"No. No, I'll do it. He might need stitching, and I don't trust my hands." Porthos held up his chafed palms and injured fingertips, now joined by bloody knuckles on one hand. 

Athos had almost forgotten. 

"You should let me have a look at that once we're done with Aramis."

Porthos shrugged.

They returned to the bedroom and at the sound of door Aramis turned his head to look. At the sight of both of them he breathed a relieved sigh that immediately turned into a pained wince. He blinked away tears. 

Athos felt shame clumping together into little leaden balls in his guts for having made the man worry while he was bruised black and blue and shallowly bleeding from innumerable cuts. 

Porthos appeared suitably chastened as well. Within seconds he was back by Aramis' side, telling him what a fool he was for moving around. 

If Aramis was pleased that Porthos was finally talking again it did not show. 

Instead he warily eyed the bucket of water that Athos hauled up to his makeshift table. He must know that what followed would be harrowing.

Athos offered him another swig to dull the pain and helped him get it down. Drinking was not easy when you were lying on your stomach and wished to avoid moving your shoulders, neck or spine. Aramis ended up emptying the flask and Athos prayed it would not make him throw up. 

Still, every drop was probably needed: the procedure turned out to be every bit as torturous as he had imagined. 

Athos knew that by the time he was finished his nerves would be frayed. He had to steel himself every time he dabbed at the cuts and made Aramis hiss with pain. 

"Have you been trained by a butcher?!"

They had started by washing his back. For this they had stretched him out on the floor in order not to soak the mattress he would most likely have to spend the next couple of days on. 

Porthos was holding his arms so he did not accidentally break Athos' nose.

"Don't scrub!"

Porthos shushed him with a gentle noise. "He's terrible. I know. Grew up spoiled and never did any work with his hands except to peel an apple."

Athos assumed Porthos was humouring Aramis to keep him calm. It did not work.

"He's ripping off all the skin I've left!" Aramis yelped when Athos touched him again. Reviving some of his talkative nature appeared to be the only effect the drink had on him so far, while all the bravado he had kept up during so much of the flogging had been spent. 

This was only the beginning. 

After the initial rinse they doused his wounds with the strong alcohol Aramis had set aside for that special purpose. Just sniffing at it could make you feel woozy.

Yet the resulting sensations sobered Aramis up like nothing else could have apart from a second flogging. He sucked in the air through his teeth and his breathing hitched. Athos could see him bite his lips. Then he let out a weak sob. And another. 

"Breathe, Aramis" Porthos whispered, his voice shaky with emotion, "breathe."

Athos decided to avoid looking at their faces altogether until he was done and to keep himself focused on nothing but the lacerated skin before him.

To see Aramis like this so shortly after having heard him cry out under the whip forced all the images and emotions back to the forefront of his mind that Athos could not afford to deal with right now. He was comforted only by the thought that as soon as they were done there would be no more need for pain and the healing could finally begin. 

He wondered if they should have knocked their patient out for this, but under the circumstances Athos could not bring himself to try it, especially as Aramis had fainted at least once today already, and he would order his coffin first before asking Porthos to do it. 

Fortunately the alcohol Aramis had ingested rather than the one that was being used to treat his back took hold of him again and his protests turned quieter, but also more incoherent. 

Still, it was only too well, for after the rinsing, after they had dabbed him dry with clean tissue, came the stitching. In quite a few places the whip had ripped deeply through the layers of skin and into the flesh. It did not help that the skin surrounding these cuts was all tender from bruising. Even through the haze of alcohol Aramis whimpered feebly whenever Athos lowered the needle. 

After he had applied the last suture Athos left Porthos to dress the wounds while he let himself sink to the floor right next to the bed, leaning his head on the mattress. By now Aramis was so out of it that there was no further need to keep him still. 

Athos envied the man that he could finally find some rest. Something told Athos that he still had something to do, even if right now he could not imagine what that might be. With a hand at last allowed to tremble he wiped the sweat from his brow.

"Do you have any more wine?" he asked, his voice thin. "Drinkable ones?"

Aramis mumbled something he could not understand. 

Right. _Let him sleep if he can._


	4. Chapter 4

Athos put his hands over his face and for a while simply breathed, in and out, listening to the blood rushing through his veins. His eyes seemed to want to close of their own accord. Eventually he sensed Porthos sitting down next to him. But unlike Athos the big man seated himself on the flat chest the top of which was now clear again. Next to it lay all the tissue they had used up to dab at the cuts and bruises, now lying in a pinkish heap. 

"He's out. Asleep," Porthos said, speaking softly.

From somewhere he had produced a bottle of dark red wine that he handed to Athos. It was much too sweet and thick on the tongue for Athos' taste but he gulped it down without complaining. The smell was wonderfully disgusting and numbing. For some time they just sat together and passed the bottle between them.

"Do you think we did it? He's going to make it?"

Athos did not know how to respond and took another swig. 

"Shall I take a look at your hands now?" He asked, as if Porthos would simply forget that he had not answered. Perhaps he would take the hint. "And you still got that cut under your eye. You should clean it while we have all this stuff out."

Porthos leaned forward to catch his eye with a dark look. 

Athos swallowed. He was tempted tell him that it would be all right, just to shut him up. He would say that Aramis was going to make it, that they both knew how strong he was and how he had survived too much else to let this kill him.

Yeah, _as if everything else he had gone through had not been enough_. He also had to be tortured by a jealous madman!

"I don't know." It was the truth. This could go anywhere. Aramis might heal perfectly or not at all. Especially as it had taken some time before they had been able to treat him. In an ideal world they would have cleaned the cuts, cooled the swelling and dressed his wounds before the blood had even had a chance to dry. But their reality was far from ideal. 

"We will change the bandages every day, watch out for signs of infection. And then wait."

Athos wanted to shake himself. He needed Porthos to shake him. This was Aramis he was talking about! How could he be analysing things so clinically?

Porthos sighed and nodded, leaning back again as if Athos had told him something he had not already known. He grabbed the bottle and took a drink himself. 

"I shouldn't have taken a swing at you" he finally said. 

"Don't be sorry. You needed to let it out somehow." If they were doing this at all, they needed to do it properly. Otherwise they would have to have this conversation again someday. "After what they forced you to do." _And what for?_ "To protect me." Athos needed another drink. He reached for the bottle and frowned at how light it was. 

As noiselessly as only thieves and giant musketeers could Porthos moved from the chest and sat down against the bed as well. As there was still a respectable distance between them Athos guessed it was so they were no longer facing each other rather than from Porthos feeling a need to seek comfort by sitting closer to him.

"I flogged him. Why don't we say it?" 

His tone was flat rather than accusatory, and he did not look Athos in the eye, instead he stared stubbornly ahead at the brightly painted wall.

"I know it's they who put me there, who gave me the whip." Porthos shook himself as if it would somehow detach the memory. "It's just … Aramis. Knowing I did this to him myself, with my own hands … it's too much."

Athos took one more look at his friend's abused, blood-encrusted fingernails, and then, too, looked away. He felt something stir deep inside of him, briefly, weakly, but red-hot. It was gone again in an instant. This was no place for it, no time for it. Not yet. If ever.

Porthos took another swig and cleared his throat before he spoke again.

"And he's just lying there and I don't know what will happen, while these guys … they just left. They don't care one bit about how this is going to end. They'll never hear of it again. And if they do, they'll say they just followed orders."

Now it was Athos' turn to nod at the sad facts he had already known to be true before they had been spoken. The guards' faces had all been covered and none of them had spoken long enough for their voices to become identifiable. 

He fought the bile rising in his throat. He lifted the bottle again, but it was empty.

From now on, whenever he encountered any Red Guards would he be wondering? The musketeers might even one day be forced to work together with the very men who had been in the court today (had it truly been only a couple of hours ago?), who had watched the skin being flayed off Aramis' back without batting an eye. If Athos had had any faith left to be lost in his fellow men – that realisation would have taken it. 

And while Athos could never be sure whether any of the guards knew – any of the guards he would have to encounter on a regular basis just to do his job – these guards would know him and how the cardinal had forced the proud musketeers to play his game. They would remember exactly how he had been reduced to begging, to shouting, to being so completely at the cardinal's mercy that only an act of desperation had relieved him. 

They would remember how Porthos had allowed himself be forced to injure one friend to save the other. 

"Do you still want to go and get these guys?"

"Yeah." Porthos hesitated. "Only it would do no good, would it? I can't get at the cardinal. I don't know who the others were. I'd just be beating up some random guys, and then they'd arrest me and put me away or hang me. And you'd still be out here, and Aramis, while he's," he let the thought hang in the room for a second, "like this." He blinked away something that had caught in his eye. "Well, I'm not leaving you. Don't fuss."

He blinked again and Athos knew that if Aramis were to die it might be a whole different matter. But Athos did not intend to be left behind if it came to that. If Richelieu destroyed one of them he was welcome to finish the job with the whole set.

Who knew, if they encountered some of the guards in a more relaxed, unofficial setting, say, like a tavern, they might find themselves challenged to a duel as they so often were. The guards might try and taunt their opponents during the fight. They might be goaded into letting something slip. The Lord help them if they did!

But for now the most important thing remained taking care of Aramis, making sure there would be no need for this type of revenge. Making sure they remained a set. All three of them.

"I'm sorry I threatened you in the courtyard," he said. For once he tried to catch Porthos' eye. "It wasn't fair to try and force you to make that choice, again."

Porthos held his gaze just for the blink of an eye.

"It was no choice."

Athos nodded, but another thought, a much colder one, joined the red-hot thing in his guts and reduced it to a pathetic simmer. 

"It's just so strange to feel like you ought to have died." 

It was also a feeling Athos had thought he had left behind. Yet, at that moment, all that had mattered to him was for the torture to end, by any means.

"Don't say that!"

Porthos more or less blindly struck out his hand and caught Athos' by the inside of his wrist, pressing lightly. 

"Don't ever say that!"

It was at that moment they heard somebody moving up the stairs outside. Not a second later the door opened and d'Artagnan burst in.

"Finally!" the newest musketeer-in-training managed to sound relieved and exasperated at the same time. "When did you get back here? I've been looking all over for you. Treville is going to eat you ali—!"

It was anyone's guess what d'Artagnan made of the scene before him: Aramis covered up in bed in the middle of the day, asleep, while Athos and Porthos were slouching on the floor with a bottle of wine, a pile of bloody tissues next to them and Porthos sporting a black eye. And the both of them were almost holding hands. 

"What happened?"

"Quiet!" Porthos hissed.

"What's going on?" d'Artagnan repeated more quietly. "Is he injured?"

D'Artagnan might still have been inexperienced in a lot of matters but he was not dumb. For now Athos was only glad that when Porthos had covered up Aramis with a blanket he had also hidden from view the bandages and consequently the extent of the injuries.

Athos had dreaded these questions and with a pang he suddenly remembered what he had forgotten to do: They had been absent from their posts for half a day without leave, and he had not yet made up any excuses. 

He swallowed.

There was no way he could let the true story become public fodder for gossips. He briefly wondered whether the Red Guards would be so considerate. Or would they be bragging? At the thought something within Athos prickled. He felt his pulse quicken. But, no! He could not just take off looking for a fight, most likely with Porthos in tow. 

As much as he hated the thought both of this particular crime going unpunished as well as having to leave Aramis' side he knew they had to get back on duty. The musketeers counted on all of their brothers. And after that, Aramis still needed looking after. They could not pass off that burden onto d'Artagnan's lean shoulders.

D'Artagnan, who even now scrunched up his face in worry. D'Artagnan, who had the worst timing imaginable. What were they going to tell him? And "they" clearly meant Athos, as Porthos was presently looking at him expectantly. Athos tried not to resent the man for looking to him for leadership. This role, the responsibility that he usually took in his stride without a second thought now pressed onto his lungs like a lead weight. 

Still, the matter of fact remained that of all people d'Artagnan more than anyone else did not deserve to be lied to. 

Athos threw a look back at Aramis. He appeared peaceful enough, now that his injuries were covered up and the unconsciousness of sleep had wiped away the pain from his brow. 

"We best move to another room for this." 

Athos raised himself and offered a hand to Porthos who for a moment looked like he was going to protest. 

"Shouldn't one of us stay here? In case he wakes up?" 

But even as the words left his mouth he let himself be pulled to his feet. Athos thanked his lucky stars that would not have to deal with this alone.

As they sat d'Artagnan down at Aramis' dining table Athos and Porthos remained standing; Athos standing in front of him on the other side of the table, Porthos leaning against the wall to d'Artagnan's left. They could tell how uneasy the sudden ceremony made their young friend. He had put on a neutral mien but the tension he felt was evident in his voice. 

"What's wrong with Aramis?"

Athos did not beat around the bush:

"He's been flogged."

"Flogged!" 

D'Artagnan's expression was anything but impassive now as he stared at his friends wide-eyed, his brow furled in confusion and shock. Athos moved to press a hand to his shoulder to keep him in his seat. 

"But why?"

Athos sent his brain into overdrive to decide which answer would allow the conversation to continue in the least painful manner. Here they had to explain to their young comrade something he could never understand. Something that divided them. Something that luckily – thank heavens! – he did not share with them.

And there were certain details about their recent ordeal that he wished d'Artagnan would not come to know, yet. But if Athos excused himself now to convene with Porthos alone for a minute d'Artagnan would instantly know what so far he could only suspect: that he would be hearing a carefully filtered version of events. And d'Artagnan would never be satisfied with that, he would not let it go. He could be worse than a bloodhound. 

Additionally Athos suspected that Porthos would not appreciate having to lie to d'Artagnan, even if telling the truth meant he had to explain to their friend his own role in Aramis' torture. 

Well, he'd begin and see how this went.

"We don't exactly know", he said. It was not even a lie. A cruel grin tugged at his lips, revealing his teeth, and d'Artagnan frowned. 

"What is that supposed to mean?" 

Athos straightened himself, fought for a neutral tone and expression against that bottle of sickeningly sweet wine he had shared with Porthos.

"We had a run-in with some Red Guards. They captured us."

Athos had to exert all his self-control from shaking as he talked, as simply speaking the words somehow made the whole mad thing real – as if the image of Aramis lying before him bleeding had not been sufficient. It were the words that alone called the events into existence like a dark spell; that made them more real than the smell of blood had or the thud of coarse rope on flesh stripped bare. More real than the smooth metal of the needle between his fingertips and the resistance it encountered as it penetrated through tender skin. 

D'Artagnan started and drew Athos back to the present. 

"And they did this?"

In the months he had been with them the young man had of course experienced the rivalry between the two guard regiments first hand. But nothing he had seen of their at times violent encounters would have prepared him to expect such levels of brutality. 

"No. They brought us to the cardinal." 

"And he—?"

"No." Just as Athos had presumed he would Porthos stepped in. Until now the usually so jovial musketeer had sunken back into the silence he had carried with him out of that court. 

Porthos continued before d'Artagnan could ask any further:

"I did."

For a moment d'Artagnan was struck dumb. He stared, slack-jawed, at his friend unable to utter more than mono-syllables. 

"You—?!" 

The force behind the single word betrayed more than shock. Underneath it surged a rising anger.

As Porthos did not look like he was going to speak up to defend himself, but instead appeared to have retreated back to whatever thought or place his eerie silences mad him contemplate, Athos took over. 

"The cardinal threatened to shoot me if he didn't."

D'Artagnan's chair hit the floor with a crash. 

"That bastard!"

Again, Athos did not even flinch, while Porthos winced, no doubt thinking of Aramis sleeping in the other room.

"Sit down."

D'Artagnan preferred not to listen. He placed his hands onto the table in a wide-legged stance and looked Athos in the eye. 

"How can you be so calm?"

"Sit!"

The command, controlled, but far from calm or quiet, still did not make d'Artagnan sit down; but he took a step back. 

"What are you going to do?" Athos asked, not taking a single step towards d'Artagnan, but leaning forward. "Rush to the palace and bash the cardinal's head in?" 

D'Artagnan frowned and crossed his arms in front of his chest. Yet, he also lowered his eyes.

"Believe me," Athos continued, "we've thought of that as well. But it's not going to help Aramis."

That Porthos looked just as chastised as d'Artagnan did not escape him. Athos was forced to admit that the image appealed to his own fantasies of revenge. Either of them might say that they would not run off to do something foolish as often as they needed to, but that they would not do anything did not mean they did not want to.

D'Artagnan met his eyes again. The anger was still there but it had been tempered by the shame and confusion that helped colour d'Artagnan's cheeks.

"But… something has to be done!"

There was a hurt in their young friend's eyes so heavy that it forced his head down again. 

Athos repressed a sigh; it turned into him taking a shaky breath instead. 

"There is something you can do."

D'Artagnan raised his head and Athos was overwhelmed by the earnest look, wide-eyed, bright-eyed, that greeted him. 

"You can look after Aramis while Porthos and I think of something to tell the captain and make our report." 

D'Artagnan blinked. It could not have been what he expected to hear, but all he replied was, "Of course."

* * *

"We tell him Aramis is sick," Athos decided. He was leaning against the table while Porthos had taken over the seat vacated by d'Artagnan. Their young friend had offered to clean up the mess they had made of Aramis' bedroom. They trusted he would not wake Aramis. It took a special kind of tiredness to sleep through the pain. 

"We say he has been down with a fever all morning and we did not dare leave him."

Porthos made a distinctly unhappy face: "And we didn't send word? And d'Artagnan somehow missed to check at Aramis' lodgings when he looked for us the first time?"

Athos rubbed a hand across his brow and temples, wishing Porthos would start offering alternative plans instead of continuously shooting holes into his. 

"Well, we can't tell him he's injured."

"Why not?"

Athos stared at him. 

"Why not? Because he will want to know how Aramis came to be injured! What do you intend to tell him then?"

Porthos shrugged.

"Do you really think Aramis would want any of this to come out?"

"You think the captain is going to tell anyone?" 

Athos rolled his eyes at him.

"You know there's always someone listening when he chews one of us out." He shook his head. "We say he has been down with a fever and we couldn't leave him. Look, I know you don't like lying to Treville, but it's for the best."

Porthos threw up his hands and stood up to move about the room. Athos watched him sigh as he paced. 

"It's not going to work, Athos. If he hears Aramis is injured and sees how cut up we are he will never believe we don't know what's going on."

"So what do you propose?"

Porthos shrugged again and Athos could not take it anymore: 

"No, tell me! I've been the one doing the thinking all day! And all you do is skulk and moan!"

Porthos propped himself up on his muscular arms as he leaned across the table to face him. 

"I think we should tell the captain the truth."

Porthos' tone was calm, quiet even, but Athos started as if stung.

"Have you lost your mind?" 

Porthos slammed his fist onto the table. This time Athos did flinch. 

"He might get a proper court physician to look after Aramis. Not anyone we can afford, but someone who actually knows how to lance an infection without making it worse." Meaning someone who could repair the damaged if they had screwed up. "You know he will."

Yes. Athos knew he would. Ultimately Porthos was right. By trying to protect Aramis' reputation through lies they could end up endangering his life. They needed to tell Treville all they could bear to confess and then let the captain do what he would. Although certainly there would be shouting first, before they would even be able to attempt an explanation. Their captain could work up a temper that made even Athos cringe.

"He isn't going to believe any of our stories," Porthos continued as Athos had not yet responded. "Look at my face! And you're walking about as if you climbed out of your grave. He'll know something's up as soon as we step into his office."

"And you reek of spirits," d'Artagnan chimed in from behind him. "Sorry." 

Athos turned his head to send him a dark look. He had not even heard him re-entering. 

"What are you doing back here?"

"He sent me out."

"What did you do?"

D'Artagnan moved out of range barely quick enough to avoid the hands reaching for his collar as Porthos stepped up to him. 

"Nothing!" He spread his arms, palms raised and eyes wide in disbelief. "He woke up and I talked to him. He asked for something to drink, I got it for him, and then he asked me to leave."

"And you just left?" Athos felt the hairs on his neck stand on end at how distraught Porthos' sounded. He knew he should step in but found he had lost his voice. 

"What if he needs something?"

"He just needs some breathing space!"

Porthos growled but slunk back to his seat. As he sat down he put on a face as if someone had died.

Athos exhaled noisily. 

"Well, he'll be getting it now."


	5. Chapter 5

Walking to the garrison proved to be a singularly strange experience. Yet, Paris, in the bright light of a sunny early afternoon, looked as she always did. The streets were arranged in the same patterns as they had been the day before. The people certainly had not changed either, so Athos assumed that it must all be in his own mind. 

Perhaps Porthos had not been too off by comparing him to a walking corpse. The filter through which the familiar city appeared to him so uncanny was his own perceived numbness. While Athos was still able to take charge and told people what to do to get the job done – while the kind of sensory impressions necessary for the task reached him clear enough – the actual emotions connected to these actions took a long while to seep in.

While he had been dealing with taking care of Aramis, keeping Porthos together, having to explain what had happened to d'Artagnan, Athos had been wondering when the days had begun to have too many hours. But having wished for a little time to himself only so shortly ago, he now dreaded the night when each of them would be nursing his own hurt alone. 

When they finally entered the courtyard overlooked by that familiar wooden balcony in front of Treville's office other musketeers called out to them, jokingly asking where they had been and wondering in what state they would leave their commander's office when he was done with the unfortunate duo. Porthos and Athos ignored them and climbed up the stairs silently.

After they had been announced their captain left them waiting for a good quarter of an hour on the roofed balcony. Even when they were finally allowed to enter the office Treville was bending over a heap of maps and papers, writing. He barely looked up when they stepped in.

"Close the door, please," he said before focusing his attention back onto the papers before him.

They remained like this for a while: Treville paying no attention to them, and Porthos seemingly frozen in place at Athos' side. 

Athos coughed. 

"Captain Treville?"

This was ridiculous. Flashes of that hateful white courtyard ghosted through his mind, the flogging, Aramis' prone form, the coach, the needle… he thought of all of this and yet he still pretended to be intimidated by a reprimand from the man before him?

"You asked for us. We're here. If you don't have any tasks for us we will get back outside instead of wasting your time any longer."

Treville fixed him with a look sharp as cut glass. 

"I am waiting for an explanation, man! Do I look like I have all day to run after you damned louts?" 

The outburst did not make Athos draw back. What a difference it could make to be convinced you had not committed the sin that earned you a talking-to.

Not waiting for a reaction from either musketeer Treville returned his pen back onto the paper perhaps with just a tad more force than he had intended. Athos heard him mutter under his breath and impassively watched as he pressed down the blotting paper on the offending stain. 

While Treville was occupied Athos snuck a glance at Porthos, who sported his usual stone-faced mien while staring straight ahead at the wall behind their captain. Expecting Porthos to talk back to Treville was like expecting the sea to rise against the moon. 

"With respect, sir, we were held up—" Athos did not get far with his attempt at a defence.

"You were supposed to be on guard detail by noon!" Treville continued as if Athos had not uttered a word. He had abandoned his writing utensils. "Do you have any idea what time it is, or are your brains not yet recovered from bathing in wine?" 

It seemed d'Artagnan had not lied about the smell, although Athos guessed that the alcohol they so generously used to clean Aramis' wounds with was more at fault here than the cheap wine they had consumed afterwards.

But Treville was not done yet.

"I thought I could count on you of all people. Why don't I staff the palace with sacks of straw? They'll prove about as effective! I'll put a hat on them and no one will know the difference. It will save me the trouble of waiting for you sorry lot to deign to show your faces."

Athos held his tongue. Out of the corner of his eye he perceived Porthos grinding his teeth. 

Treville must have noticed it too for he sent him a dirty look. And then blinked, and looked again.

They had his open, full attention now. Far from continuing to punish them by not deeming his errant musketeers worthy of a single glance Treville now eyed them closely. Athos could not remember the last time he had wished for a mirror this strongly.

"What happened to your face, Porthos? Tell me you haven't been duelling again—"

Athos was just going to negate the assumption, but Treville was quicker:

"And where is Aramis? I thought I had asked for all three of you?" 

"He is indisposed," Porthos answered. Athos swallowed. 

"Indisposed? How?"

"He has been taken ill," Athos offered, just as he remembered the change of plan and heard Porthos say "Injured!" instead.

Treville tilted his head and looked up at them from his desk. 

"Both sick and injured at once?! The poor fellow has all the ill luck in the world!"

Athos registered Porthos wincing at his side. He had trouble keeping a straight face himself. 

Still, despite the unfortunate sarcasm Athos could tell that their captain was worried. He knew that if Aramis had left his friends to take the brunt of his anger for their collective neglect of duty alone there had to be a sound reason for it. And despite his angry ranting Treville was well aware that this kind of neglect was out of character for them.

"I'm sorry," Athos began again. "I misspoke. He is indeed injured, sir. In fact, it looked serious enough that we were reluctant to leave his side until d'Artagnan found us."

Treville became very still. He rested his elbows on the tabletop, folding his hands in front of his face and regarded them over the tips of his fingers. 

"Where is Aramis now?"

"At his lodgings, sir. With d'Artagnan."

"And you say this is serious? How serious?"

Athos found that despite having related the whole thing to d'Artagnan so shortly before the words did not flow any easier. 

"We couldn't be sure. There was a lot of bruising." 

"Athos stitched him up himself, sir."

"What happened to him?"

Athos regretted that they had not had taken the time nor possessed the presence of mind to discuss with Aramis what he wished they should tell their captain beforehand. But as it turned out that Treville did have all day to run after the damned louts provided they were in a particularly sorry shape. He had not needed to hear any details about the flogging before he decided to head for Aramis' apartment himself, hat in hand, all paperwork forgotten. It also happened that when they returned to his rooms Aramis was awake and would be able to decide for himself how much Treville needed to know.

* * *

He was staring ahead at the far wall, still lying on his stomach, one arm slung under the pillow he used to prop his head on and presently imagining shapes in the texture of the wooden wainscoting, when he heard them coming up to the door. Well, he heard one them. 

"You better start thinking fast, and talking even faster. I want to know who did this to one of my musketeers."

They had brought the captain.

The room looked tidy again when they entered, all traces of their surgery disappeared. The afternoon sun shed a lazy light onto the clear floorboards through ineffective curtains. 

If this had been anyone else Aramis might have feigned sleep, but he guessed this was more than a social visit. 

He turned his head to look at his visitors. 

"Captain?" His voice sounded hoarse. Aramis himself could not tell whether it was from napping, or a result of the constant pain his back put him in. Despite his keen interest in anatomy and all things medical he had never before consciously been aware of how much a person used their back even for the smallest movements. 

He let his head drop back onto the pillow when his eyes settled on Athos and Porthos. His back itched as he recalled the sting of the needle. 

Aramis knew he had not made saving his life particularly easy for his friends. First they had had to carry him like a rag doll, endure his lack of composure during the carriage ride, and finally he had shouted at them and eventually turned to sobs when he should have been directing the much less experienced Athos' hand instead.

He wondered if all the humiliation had been the cardinal's intent or merely a bonus. 

Lost in thought he did not quite catch what his captain said to him. 

"I'm sorry?"

"Will you talk to me?"

It was not a conversation Aramis looked forward to, but it was one he could not possibly avoid. He felt his throat constrict at the thought and nodded silently instead. But he also sent a meaningful look in the direction of his friends. 

He did not exactly register how Treville asked the two to wait outside. Aramis took the time to steel his nerves, taking a deep breath. 

But he turned to look when the door closed and Treville walked over to him. 

"How are you holding up?"

Aramis grimaced at the question.

"It's not so bad as long as I don't move."

Without even attempting to touch it Treville gesticulated towards the blanket covering Aramis' back. 

"They told me they patched you up. Do you mind …"

Aramis was torn between the need to keep his condition to himself as much as he could and a perverse desire to let Treville know exactly how much he had suffered to earn himself the sympathy and comfort and of his captain. 

He attempted an impassive face as he nodded his consent, yet he almost wished his friends had not bandaged him up. The bruised ruin of his back would have been more impressive than the innocent cloth used to treat it.

Aramis could not see Treville's face as the man took a brief look at the dressings. Neither did he make a single telling sound before he put the blanket back in place. 

Aramis wondered whether any blood had seeped through the bandages by now but did not dare to ask. 

Treville pulled over the single chair to sit at Aramis' head. They held each other's gaze as he spoke. 

"Do you know who did this to you?"

Treville spoke in a low voice, a gravelly tone that sent Aramis back to another sickbed, so long ago, somewhere between Paris and Savoy. 

Aramis could not help it. Already he looked away.

"I brought this on myself, Captain. It's nothing to do with the musketeers."

He could feel himself choking up and gritted his teeth. 

"Of course it's to do with the musketeers! You can't do your job like this, can you?!"

Aramis still did not dare look him in the eye.

"Since this is my fault. You can stop my pay for as long as I'm out of commission." 

Treville sighed. He leaned in closer and tried again in his low, calming voice.

"I would prefer to hear it from you, but I can worm it out of Porthos if you don't feel up to it yet."

Aramis shook his head, wincing involuntarily at the pain it caused him as skin pulled on skin. 

"No!" His friends had suffered enough on his behalf! 

"Who did this?" Treville repeated.

Aramis' mind raced, scrabbling for a response, yet not daring to divulge anything. There would be no turning back once he started. He took a shaky breath at the thought.

"The jealous lover of a mistress."

"Who, Aramis?"

Aramis swallowed, grimacing through far too many teeth.

"With all respect, sir, I believe that is a private matter." 

"You know that as your commanding officer I can't turn a blind eye to something like this. You are the king's man. You're my soldier. The moment you put on that uniform your affairs became my affairs. I need to know who tortured one of my musketeers."

Aramis swallowed again to clear the lump that had unexpectedly formed in his throat and almost choked on his spit.

He tried again.

"The cardinal." 

Treville sank back into his chair. He rested his forehead on one hand rubbing his eyes. 

"Himself?"

His voice sounded so strangled. 

Aramis nodded and suddenly found himself trembling. "He was there." His own voice was strangely thick. "But he made Porthos do it." He tried to swallow again and, for just a second, found that he could not. 

Treville had risen and frozen on the spot. Then stepped to the window. Then turned back. But it was no use, he obviously could not hold it in. 

"What do I keep telling you three?!"

Aramis winced at the sudden loudness.

"Keep away from the Cardinal!" Treville sucked in the air through his teeth. "But you stupid boys only seem to take that as a challenge! I don't tell you to keep from stepping on his toes to do him a favour!"

He shook his head. Aramis remained still.

When Treville looked up again his eyes were bright and he started pacing. Aramis could tell he was still bristling with anger. 

Treville managed to cross the bedroom thrice before he spoke again.

"You know my hands are tied in this matter. If it had been anyone else…"

He let the sentence hang and Aramis simply nodded again. 

_Another sacrifice for the good of France._

His throat was too choked up from his own confession for him to be able to form words. He blinked away the tears that had snuck into the corners of his eyes and silently cursed himself, breathing harshly to keep from crying. 

Thankfully Treville had taken to pacing again and was not looking at him. 

He waited until Aramis had dried his tears before he sat down once more and for a second Aramis was taken aback by how ashen he captain looked. The greying beard, the thinning hair had never stood out to him so much as in this moment.

"This is over his mistress?"

"Yes." Aramis doubted his ability to speak in anything other than monosyllables. 

"You had an affair with the cardinal's mistress?"

"Yes, sir," from somewhere Aramis took the energy to add the honorific this time. 

"Did you know she was his mistress when you started this affair?"

He repeated the affirmative and Treville sighed.

Aramis was taken by a sudden wave of drowsiness. As he closed his eyes he found his shoulder touched lightly in a comforting manner and pushed himself back into the present. 

"Somehow you have a knack for making enemies of people I can't protect you from. I still doubt you did anything to deserve this," Treville said. "I doubt there is anything any of you could have done to deserve this."

Aramis could feel himself fail to grin. 

"The cardinal did have a different opinion."

Treville did not dwell on it. "As this is not your fault," he made sure to articulate clearly, "I am not having anyone's pay stopped, and I'm sending someone over to look after you, and to make sure you will be able to move your back again after Athos has sewn it up so tightly."

Aramis finally was able to meet his gaze again and nodded bravely. Treville rewarded him with a smile. It was a very brief, fleeting smile, working against a potential host of other emotions shut out of the captain's face, but Aramis held onto it. 

"It will also give your comrades time to catch some sleep and make up for their unexcused absence."

He paused. Whether to search for words or simply to add meaning to his next line Aramis did not know. 

"If you'd prefer to quit the service under the circumstances—"

Aramis opened his eyes wide.

"No! Sir, please, that won't be necessary." _The thought alone!_ "I can't leave!" He broke off, chocked up again. 

Treville's eyes grew very soft.

"You won't abandon your friends, of course. But you understand there is nothing I can legally do about the Cardinal except to keep you away from him?"

Aramis sighed and turned his gaze back to the wall. 

"Yes." 

And then: 

"Perhaps best keep Athos and Porthos away, too, for a while."

It was Treville's turn to nod. "Of course." 

It was strange; Aramis felt it was he who should be suggesting some form of action for Treville to take in order to comfort his captain. But he could not think of anything. 

"Thank you, Captain," he said instead. 

Then his mind gave a violent jerk that made Aramis tilt his head. Had Treville specified _legally_?

But the captain had already taken his leave of him, after telling him to get some rest and patting his shoulder carefully. 

Aramis assumed Athos and Porthos must have been waiting basically on the doorstep, for he heard Treville addressing them as soon as the door opened with a click; ensuring that Aramis would be able to listen if he so chose.

"You three better lay low for a while. If I hear anything about you getting too close to the cardinal or picking fights with his guard you can pack up your things and look for a new employment. Do you understand?"

"Captain—" That was Porthos. 

"Do you understand?"

The two mumbled their assent. 

As they followed their captain downstairs Aramis had to smile softly. 

Treville did indeed send them a proper surgeon. He had barely left before the man arrived. To everyone's relief he assured them that the stitches appeared clean and that there was no whiff of infection, yet. He would return to change the dressings himself every day.

"Your friend is lucky," Aramis had heard him address Athos and Porthos, frowning at the choice of words. Apparently it was fortunate that "whoever applied the damage stuck to his upper back". There was no permanent damage done, but "the heavy scarring you can except with a treatment like this," he had said, "… the scars are either going to fade with time, or they're not. There's nothing I can do about it."

He had also advised his friends to encourage Aramis to move as soon as possible as to not allow the newly mended back to stiffen up – even though it would not prove to be an experience entirely free of pain. It was expected that he would be confined to mostly just lying down for about a week, but under the circumstance Aramis was not going to complain about the prospect. 

The surgeon had hardly been gone for five minutes before Athos and Porthos poured back into his bedroom again.

The three of them just looked at each other for a moment, unable to find the right words to begin this particular conversation. Aramis could feel the sleepiness return despite his passively aching back, but forced himself to remain sensible for a while longer. These two had suffered so much for him. 

"Sorry about the traffic in here. Treville insisted on coming by," Athos offered eventually, and the two of them drew nearer. "He also insisted on sending over a proper doctor."

Aramis found himself nodding again, but shook himself out of it. He had done a lot of nodding today. "Yes, he mentioned something to that effect," he said instead. "Don't be sorry about it. He needs to know these things, even if any sane man would prefer not to."

"What else did he say?" Athos seated himself in the chair next to the bed, resting his elbows on his thighs. 

Aramis' gaze turned back to the boring wood panelling on the lower walls. But Porthos crouched down in front of him, trying to catch his eye. It was not with the annoyed expression he usually put on when Aramis refused to look at him, but with an open, earnest look Aramis found hard to refuse even in his state.

"He said it wasn't my fault." 

Porthos did not waste a second: "Well, he's right." 

Aramis swallowed, feeling strangely heated. He would not let them take away the blame so completely. It was the only thing to keep the shame tethered.

"But if it had not been for me—"

He found himself interrupted by Athos: "You couldn't have known anything like this would happen!"

"Yeah, no one knew the cardinal was this—"

"Mad?" Athos suggested.

Aramis shook his head and sighed. His friends fell silent in expectation.

"I'm sorry I've put you through this."

A sardonic smile tugged at Athos' lips. 

"Don't be silly. We're not doing this for your benefit. We stitched you up for our own comfort."

Porthos joined in: "Yeah, you squirming is the best entertainment I've had all week."

Aramis either was not in a state to understand humour or not in the mood for it. Instead he felt the heat turn into ice deep inside his guts.

"He killed Adele because of me."

Porthos grabbed his hand. "Stop it. Richelieu did not kill her because of you. He killed her because he's a bastard."

"I don't think it's that easy!"

"Why not?" 

"He dragged you into this. If I hadn't—"

"Shut up! You can't make us blame you." Porthos' gaze faltered. "It's hard enough not to blame ourselves." His voice had turned so soft that Aramis had almost not understood his friend even though he was kneeling right before him. And Athos was busy staring at his hands as if lost in thought. 

Aramis winced. He could not watch them absolve him while they were consumed by their own guilt. 

"They forced you." He fought the memories of the snap of the whip and wondering when it would be over as Porthos had carried out his order so diligently. He kept his eyes opened against the past, keeping his gaze fixed on Porthos' face. "I don't hold anything you did against you."

"I thought I had killed you!"

Porthos raised his eyes but immediately looked away again. Aramis felt stunned. 

"You didn't." The wounds in his back stung as he moved, but he covered the hand that was grasping one of his with his other hand. "I'm still here. And you saved Athos."

He watched Porthos bite his lip and, lost, he turned a confused look to Athos. But the man said nothing. 

"Athos?"

He simply looked tired. 

Aramis vaguely recalled Athos shouting, and a shot. He thought he was going to throw up. The cardinal selecting him for torture was one thing, but to take this friendship from them was too much. He felt the bile rising in his throat.

"Athos!" He called out again and this time Athos snapped out of his dark reverie. "What did you do?" 

Athos raised his head to focus on the wall behind the bed. "I just needed them to stop. Porthos wouldn't listen." 

Porthos' hold tightened.

"They could have killed you! That's why Porthos didn't listen!"

"I don't think I cared."

He reached out clumsily for Athos' hands and grabbed his knee. Immediately he drew his arm back again as a stab of pain shot threw his back that made him groan.

"You are idiots!" Aramis' words were muffled by the pillow he buried his face in. He felt Porthos awkwardly patting his hair and did not know whether to laugh or sob. Ultimately the noise he made turned into a strangled hiccup. 

"It's over now",[,”] Athos said eventually, touching his shoulder the way Treville had done. "Neither of us is leaving."

Aramis turned his face before he could smother himself and sent Athos a look out of red-rimmed eyes.

"If I am not allowed to feel guilty than neither of you are."

Athos met his gaze with a solemn look.

"Don't worry about me."

"Or me," answered Porthos.

"How can I not? You're both irresponsible." 

"I am going to remind you of this the next time you offer to follow my lead blindly on a mission."

Aramis swallowed, waiting for his rate of breathing to calm down.

"Are we good?" 

Athos and Porthos looked at each other.

"We are going to be."


End file.
